Am having writer's block this week. Sorry. I tried to write a post on Tuesday. And made a couple more attempts yesterday again. I now have at least five drafts saved, and they all start with 'Am having writer's block this week'!
All I can think about at the moment is **London** – being back in my bustling Bristish hometown and trawling the King's Road alongside fellow poms, clutching a Starbucks frappucino (equivalent to freezocino), my arms lined with Top Shop shopping bags (I'm allowed to, it's London) after a morning in Oxford Circus (officially my favourite place in the world) and Covent Garden. Heading to the pub after a full day of walking and shopping for a jug of pimms and some pork scratchings beneath the spring blossoms, then dining on the Fulham Road with Lovely Boyfriend and all my amazing friends and family whom I cannot WAIT to see! Bliss! (And bankruptcy... Blasted ZAR.)
(I think I forgot to mention that on my way to Turkey for amazing free-food-and-bubbly media-elite week on luxury 14-person ketcha with private crew and chefs, we are actually stopping in to London for a day. I literally am reeling, but wish it was longer since we have to be up actually before dawn cracks to get to Gatwick. But who can complain about being whisked away on Monarch Airlines only to arrive in Turkey for 5-star free-of-charge treatment. I certainly can't.)
Anyway, what with the trip in 3 weeks, moving house in 2 (to previously mentioned pimpim' bachelor pad), and flying home for Easter in 1 (we all know how I feel about Joburg), my mind is ticking like a metranome on acid. I haven't even thought about packing yet and am trying to focus on the fact that we are throwing a 'house cooling' chicks-only bash tomorrow night! (As opposed to house warming, in case you didn't quite get it.) I have been instructed to make my famed, gloriously cheesy culinary masterpiece nachos, oozing with salsa, dripping with juicy mince, and dipped in fresh guacamole and ice-cold sour cream. (Did I just make you dribble? You dribbled didn't you.) So am going to be frantically busy tomorrow eve cooking up a nacho storm, while sipping (or gulping) on my flute of Villiera Brut Rose between tasks, and dressed in lumo gear (remind me why we made it a themed evening again?).
Must get to gym after work to work off rather large 19-cheeses Death Quiche I inhaled (literally devoured it in no more than three mouthfuls) over lunch. (I believe that when an anorexic pictures the devil, she visualises this exact quiche.) Am only allowing myself my regular glass of Thursday Night Champagne if I conquer an hour's workout. Say goodbye Death Quiche!
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